by M. K. Hume
‘Lord Myrddion, my mother would agree to leave with Finn for my sake.’ The child’s rusty voice was oddly persuasive and Myrddion recognised the same tone of command that he used at times when hard decisions must be made. ‘She does not wish to leave you, but she loves me enough to throw away her security. But she need not, for I’ll not go to Segontium whatever you say. Venta Belgarum is where she who must not be named wishes me to be . . . even though I am frightened. We are all her tools and I have come to realise that she saved my life for some purpose.’ She turned to Brangaine. ‘I must go with the master to Venta Belgarum, because the Mother wills it.’
Brangaine’s shoulders slumped in the light of her daughter’s vivid, insistent eyes. Then she turned to face Myrddion while her arms wound tightly around the child.
‘What should I do, master? What should I do?’
‘I don’t know, Brangaine, but perhaps Willa is right. Perhaps our destiny has always led to Venta Belgarum, and although we try to avoid our separate fates the Mother will have her way, no matter how we struggle to gainsay her.’
‘Aye, master, I know.’
Then Brangaine wept, as if Willa had already been torn from her arms.
Rhedyn elected to stay with Brangaine to help with the children, so in the end just Finn Truthteller and his young family took road for Segantium. The only person who was overjoyed to see them climb into their wagon and set the horses in motion was Gron, the innkeeper. All day, he had been predicting dire consequences to the inn for sheltering the healers, until his wife longed to brain him with her best iron cooking pot.
‘After they’ve gone, the eyes of Uther Pendragon will turn away from us. At least some of them are leaving, but I’ll not rest easy until I see the back of all of those cursed healers.’
‘You’d not have to worry about coming to the prince’s attention if you didn’t water the wine,’ Fionnuala hissed, her plump breasts quivering with the dislike she often felt for her spouse. ‘These healers have brought custom to the Flower Maiden . . . and if they go, you’ll have nothing to complain about, will you? Be careful what you wish for, husband.’
Gron eyed his angry wife out of the corners of his eyes and tried to look affronted, which failed dismally because of the shifty look that was etched into his cadaverous face.
But later, when Myrddion paid their account at the inn and made arrangements for their departure, Gron felt a strange reluctance to pad the bill in his usual custom. The landlord would breathe more easily once the healers had gone, but perhaps there were worse dangers ahead than strange, outland travellers.
Venta Belgarum was far away, and Uther soon chafed at the slow speed of the journey. The prince usually drove his troops mercilessly so that they seemed to appear, fully armed and thirsting for blood, under the walls of any Saxon fortress they encountered. Like smoke, the tribesmen came and went at will. Unfortunately, Myrddion’s oxen were unmoved by Uther’s desire for haste and plodded along in the rear at their usual slow pace. Eventually, Uther decided to desert the healer’s party, leaving them with a guard of half a dozen mounted cavalrymen while he sped onward like an arrow loosened from a bow. On his order, the foot soldiers broke into a brisk trot and Myrddion marvelled anew at the discipline and fortitude of men who marched to war with their weapons in a pack upon their backs. As they ran, the warriors sang lustily and Myrddion’s heart trembled in his chest as tuneful voices sang tales of long gone days when his people ruled his wild and beautiful land unopposed.
Gold-hilted in his hand I see his sword;
Two spears he holds, with spearheads grim and green;
Around his shield the yellow gold is poured,
And in its midst a silver boss is seen.
Other, lighter voices answered as they disappeared into the grey dust of the roadway.
Fair Fergus ruin on us all hath brought!
We crossed the ocean, and to him gave heed;
His honour with a cup of ale was bought;
From him hath passed the fame of each high deed.
‘Their song gives me the shivers, Myrddion. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, to run towards the enemy belting out a song of death,’ Cadoc muttered.
Myrddion listened from the back of his horse until the eerie music passed away into the low hills. ‘They sing a song from Hibernia that tells of the exile of the sons of Usnach. Perhaps we should take their message as a warning. If Uther doesn’t stop the enemy, then we will be exiles in a far land, forever torn from everything we love.’
‘There’s a cheerful thought,’ Cadoc whispered under his breath.
After passing the next small township, the wagons travelled slowly along a narrow, ill-kept road leading out of Durocobrivae, and this part of the journey soon became uncomfortable and slow. The ribbon of compacted earth and fieldstone plunged south through uneven country, making little concession for travellers who sought an easy route into the south-west. Spring rains rendered the road both muddy and treacherous, especially when going downhill, and the women were forced to alight from the carts and trudge beside them with their long skirts dragging in the mud.
Now that the journey had actually begun, Willa had cheered immediately and her face was wreathed in smiles when Botha, who had been charged with ensuring that the healers reached Ambrosius’s capital, swung the girl up onto his horse to ride in front of him. With her immature back pressed against the burly guardsman’s torso, she sat and laughed aloud at the efforts of the sliding oxen, the sudden flight of a flock of ducks and the trailing branches of thick oaken copses that caught in her hair. Myrddion felt his spirit lighten as he watched her happily devouring these wild places as if she had never experienced the terrors of bad dreams.
Cold, filthy and weary, the small party imagined themselves to be the only travellers in this savage place until the landscape cleared and they found themselves fording a swift river.
‘Where are we, Botha?’ Myrddion asked, wringing out his black cloak, which had become saturated when he was unhorsed in the river. ‘I swear we’ve seen no one since we left Durocobrivae.’
Botha pointed to the north with one hand. ‘There’s a hamlet across that way, but I don’t think it even has a name. This road eventually meets another goat track that takes us south to Calleva Atrebatum, where we’ll join a major thoroughfare that leads into Venta Belgarum. The journey becomes easier after that.’
‘Promise?’ Cadoc snapped irritably as he stripped off his wet boots and tried to warm his chilled feet.
‘Not if we don’t get these beasts moving,’ Botha replied tersely. ‘Gods, but I hate oxen!’
‘At least that’s something we can agree on,’ Cadoc retorted, and the slow journey resumed.
Day blurred into day, for oxen travel at their own pace and no application of whips or quirts will speed their steady plodding. Just when Myrddion believed he would scream with boredom and frustration, Calleva Atrebatum hove into view.
The large Romanised town rested in a small nest of low hills and presented an orderly, well-kept visage to strangers. The cheerful faces of the local peasants, the neat conical cottages on well-tended farms and the fat-tailed sheep that grazed on the low slopes brought sudden tears to Myrddion’s eyes. His memories of these lands had comforted him during their travels because of their fruitfulness and plenty. The tuneful whistling of a cowherd driving his beasts to fresh pastures filled some of the emptiness that existed in the young healer’s heart. Perhaps service in Ambrosius’s court mightn’t be so very bad if the sights, sounds and smells of home surrounded the healers with a promise of better days ahead.
Botha had been charged with shepherding his charges to Venta Belgarum at the best possible speed, so he only permitted a single night of rest in a comfortable inn on the outskirts of Calleva Atrebatum. Hot food was a boon and straw-filled pallets luxurious treats after weeks on the road. By now, Finn must be far away and Myrddion ached for the companionship and calm common sense of the laconic herbmaster. He also missed the gurgling s
mile of Bridie’s infant, although Brangaine’s newest orphan was a lusty child who cried ceaselessly when he was wet, hungry or tired. Fortunately for his chances of survival, the little boy could eat well-chewed food, for milk was only rarely available. In Calleva Atrebatum, Myrddion immediately took comfort from a long, relaxing soak in the still-functioning Roman baths, the custom that he missed most from his adventures in the Middle Sea.
Over a bowl of warm soup, Myrddion tried to discover the private secrets of Uther Pendragon by questioning Botha, but at first the prince’s most trusted guardsman refused to be drawn.
‘I know what you’re about, healer, so don’t try to trick or bribe me. I would take any insult to my master in bad part.’
‘I’ll ask my questions to your face, Botha, for I’ve nothing to conceal. I’m fearful of Prince Uther, and I’d be pleased to find some evidence that he’s not the machine of war that men describe in whispers behind his back.’
Botha laughed harshly, but then he relented. ‘My master is much as he has been described. What would you have me say, Myrddion Merlinus? Uther Pendragon is a man who has been shaped by cruel times. He is a warrior who has been hammered out by suffering to save his country, but only by spending his own blood profligately. He is in the saddle for many months of each year. Against the wishes of his brother, he has not wed, nor has he acknowledged any children that might warm his old age. His thoughts are ever fixed upon striking the Saxons at their heart and I’ve never known a man so determined and inflexible in his chosen purpose. If you would feel his wrath, then mention the name of Vortigern, the murderer and traitor, for my master lays all the ills that afflict our land at the feet of that bloodstained bastard.’
CHAPTER IV
THE MASTER OF THE SUN
Phoebus, who first environed the round world with the rays of his wisdom so that he might rightly win the sole honour of the name of Sol, was infatuated with the love of Leucothoe, to his own disgrace and her destruction, and, through the repeated change of the eclipse, he frequently came to lack his own light, of which the whole world felt the loss.
Twelfth century English prose
Like a young Roman matron, Venta Belgarum rested inland from the large harbour of Portus Adurni, with a low hill on one flank and a wide river on the other. The air of this rich provincial town was sweet and the climate was temperate for the isles of Britain, so the river valley produced an abundance of fruit, vegetables and livestock. Few peasants ever slept with their bellies cleaving to their spines, and both floods and drought were rare. To add further blessings to her citizens, the port had become the chief conduit of trade with the continent now that Dubris had become a Saxon enclave. Myrddion understood why those thanes with an eye to the future turned their ambitions towards Venta Belgarum with both lust and envy.
The town itself had been blessed by Roman occupation. The roads were wide and well designed, the public buildings were constructed from quarried stone and it was obvious that a clear sense of order in town planning had been developed for centuries, leaving only pre-Roman and post-Roman commercial and domestic architecture to sprawl in the mild sunshine. The Roman buildings were perfectly aligned and self-contained. Here, in a position of prominence, stood Ambrosius’s hall and the seat of his government.
The forecourt of the hall was not large, but it possessed the distinction of being completely paved in the Roman style. The wagons groaned to a halt and Botha ordered two cavalrymen to drive the vehicles to a house near the city walls where Uther had ordered that the healers should be domiciled. With sound common sense, Botha had ordered this detour to the centre of the busy town so that Myrddion should see with his own eyes the glories of the High King’s rule.
The Great Hall of Ambrosius was constructed of timber and its design was inclined to hark back to the distant past, so the imperator had ordered that the vast doors be suitably painted. As carved dragons of amazing intricacy had been adzed out of the timber, the red colours of the legions figured prominently in conjunction with thin strips of beaten bronze, copper and brass. Every wooden surface was covered with complex, intertwined patterns that had no ending and no beginning: much like the nature of the High King himself, with a firm foundation in the tribal past but strengthened by Roman invention.
‘As soon as you have bathed and dressed, you must return with your two guardsmen to this hall, where Prince Uther will introduce you and your party to the High King. Do I have your oath that you will not try to escape?’
‘Aye. Your prince kept his word and allowed my assistant to go back to Segontium. I will not repay his trust by breaking faith with him.’
Botha nodded his handsome, broad-boned head. ‘Fairly said. You have until sunset. At that time, my master will expect you, in company with your remaining assistant and your servant, to be ready and waiting outside the hall. Prince Uther has no interest in your women, so they may stay with the children.’
‘We will be there, Botha.’
The route to the living quarters allotted to the healers was not long, but it was complex, for it wound through a network of streets that lacked Roman order and method. Myrddion recalled the grid patterns of Rome and the simplicity of finding a path from one landmark to another in the City of the Seven Hills, so the way through the outer, serpentine roads of Venta Belgarum was difficult to remember. Myrddion asked Praxiteles to memorise it, as he was more used than his master to finding his way through the circuitous marketplaces of the east.
The house that would become Myrddion’s home for many years was a low, sprawling structure of stone and timber that had been constructed in the Roman style, and had probably once been the abode of a minor official attached to the legions. Myrddion was surprised by the lack of windows, for the building was quite old and harked back to a Roman domestic architecture that presented blank walls to frustrate possible enemies. Any light that filtered into the small rooms emanated from an open atrium that was small, overgrown and badly in need of weeding. Long before the carts were unloaded, Rhedyn’s thoughtful eyes were already fixed on a large patch of thistles that served as the lungs of the villa.
Generally speaking, its rooms were cramped but comfortable, although Myrddion discovered a dusty, spider-webbed scriptorium, complete with scroll niches and shelves that were perfect for the storage of the young man’s precious glass jars. As this room was larger than most, Myrddion reasoned that the original owner of the villa was a man who made his living in some clerical capacity.
Like children with a new toy, the healers explored the whole building. There were simple baths and a functioning hypocaust in the back of the structure, although the plunge pools were empty and the fires to heat the water were long dead. The women found the separate kitchen and Brangaine’s eyes grew starry with delight when she spied the overgrown remnants of a herb garden.
‘We will need servants,’ Praxiteles stated laconically as he ran his fingers over a dusty divan. ‘We’ll have to do a great deal of work to set this house to rights.’
‘Aye, but first we must wash and dress for our meeting with the High King. Is there a well?’
‘Yes, master, and there are pipes that go somewhere into the foundations,’ Cadoc answered swiftly, having raced through all the rooms and the dusty patches of unhealthy grass that were hemmed in around the villa by a low rock wall. ‘But I think they’re made of lead.’
‘They’ll need changing then,’ Myrddion muttered. ‘Find your best tunics, you two, and join me. Our guards will know where the nearest baths are.’
Unfortunately, the Roman baths had been demolished years earlier, so the three men were forced to sluice themselves clean with cold water from the well. No one enjoyed this experience overmuch, although the sun was still shining. Makeshift towelling dried their hair and bodies, while Brangaine and Rhedyn entered into the spirit of the occasion by dusting and cleaning their best robes. Even Myrddion’s worn boots were cleansed of the dried mud that had fouled them on the long journey.
Within the p
rescribed two hours, just as the sun began to set in the west, the three companions were escorted into the hall of Ambrosius. Myrddion wore his best black tunic, leggings and cloak, held together with a huge damascene brooch given to him by a grateful Syrian trader whose nephew’s life he had saved. The funereal colour of Myrddion’s dress was mitigated by the fineness of his gems. Two gold and ruby rings adorned his hands, an ancient arm ring gifted by his great-grandfather encircled his wrist, and an electrum spike added a barbaric touch in one ear. His face was smooth in the Roman style, for Myrddion loathed the sensation of hairiness and had plucked away much of his beard when he was maturing. His extreme male beauty was feminised by his waist-length black hair, enlivened only by a streak of white that sprang from the right side of his forehead.
Cadoc had cleaned his leathers, taking particular care with the brass plates that had protected his torso when he was a soldier. His good tunic was snow white with age and vigorous washing, and his boots were clean. His leather satchel, worn proudly over his shoulder, added an air of distinction to his appearance. Out of a streak of vanity, the scarred man had plaited his red hair into the fore and side plaits of a warrior and bound the ends with strips of copper.
Praxiteles had few possessions of any material worth, having sold his ancestral gems when he lost his trading business in Constantinople years earlier. But poverty and the need to earn his bread as a servant had no power to diminish the impact of his thick moustaches, which were as white as the clouds over Venta Belgarum. His hair was bound around his head and was the same distinctive colour, but long streaks of jet amongst the braids gave his face an exotic cast, accentuated by his golden-brown skin. On the journey to the west, he had taken what coin he had earned in Myrddion’s service and purchased undyed tunics that had been embroidered at neck and hem in the Greek style. The impression of hale old age and intelligence expressed in his deep brown eyes, the sun-leached wrinkles on his face and his upright, vigorous stance spoke more eloquently of far places and hotter suns than any use of mere decoration.